


Father's Day at Wayne Manor

by breejah



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Fathers Day, Fluff and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breejah/pseuds/breejah
Summary: It's Father's Day at Wayne Manor and Alfred has arranged breakfast between the boys and Bruce. As much as Bruce is loathed to attend, he can't allow himself to disappoint Alfred and shows up, expecting the worst but being pleasantly surprised at how the morning evolves.Rated G for Batfamily dynamics amongst the male Robins and Bruce Wayne.





	Father's Day at Wayne Manor

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Father's Day to all the dad types out there, even the non-traditional ones!

Bruce blinked awake, frowning and sitting up with a jolt, hissing when a flare of agony licked up his side, shocked at the sign of daylight. The last thing he remembered wasn't shrouded in the light of the sun, it had been the pitch black of night. _Where the hell am I?_

He realized as he looked around that he was in his room back at Wayne Manor, his ribs mottled black and blue from the waist up on his left side. He couldn’t remember how he got here, trying to play over the events from last night, but everything was a hazy, foggy cloud in his mind. Reaching for his night stand, he gripped the portable diagnostic tool and plunged the needle into his right thigh. The machine suctioned on, taking a few minutes to calculate, but eventually it chirped and came back clean.

Frowning and setting it aside, he tried to roll into a sitting position, wincing slightly when the action made him feel like his body was about to rupture, realizing someone had come into the room behind him. He went still, feeling the pair of eyes on him, waiting for them to say something.

“You’ve already guessed I’m sure, but there’s no toxin. Not now, at least. We cleaned you up last night. Dick will be inside in a moment to help you dress, we ain’t tight like that. After that's done, come downstairs. Alfred’s orders.”

 _Jason._ He flickered a look over his shoulder, meeting the young man’s flinty gaze and expressionless stare. If there was one thing Bruce had taught him - or was it Talia? - it was how to mask and hide the rage, since he couldn’t sense any of it in his face, just knew about it from firsthand knowledge and their complicated past Bruce didn’t even know how to begin apologizing for. “Is that why you’re still here? Alfred’s offers?”

Jason stood silent for a few seconds longer, holding his stare, and Bruce had his answer. He did his best not to let his disappointment show, even if he did feel it, regardless of what the family and outsiders accused him of. _Sociopath. Emotionless machine, the Batman, no heart, no soul, no remorse for never forming healthy emotional bonds._ He tried, he really did, but always fell short of achieving the bonds he should have with the boys, especially Jason. Nodding, he turned away, brushing his hands down his ribcage and lower still. “Tell Alfred I’ll be down shortly. No need to send Dick in, I’ll manage.”

“Your ribs are broken, he’s coming.” Jason said nothing else, exiting the room.

Bruce knew what day it was, of course, and why they were here. He tried not to sigh, shake his head, but failed, slowly hobbling to a standing position, grateful he had briefs on. _What the hell had he been doing last night to cause this?_

It had been a simple run, something that would’ve kept him busy and directly away from the house. He hated Father’s Day, it reminded him of his own and all that he’d been cheated from and also how badly he’d failed the boys, mostly Damian on days like that. The others were his wards but Damian...Damian was a child, _his_ child, and he didn’t know the first thing about being a parent, so he’d treated him like any other Robin, only to mourn that he’d ruined the chance to treat him like the biological son he was. Would his father have done the things he did? Hell no, and that was the problem, why he kept Damian at a distance. He claimed it was because of his mother, his grandfather, but it was him - the real reason.  He was more comfortable in the role of mentor, as Batman, than father or dad.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he hobbled into the bathroom and set the shower jets to light blast. He stopped by the cabinet near the shower door, swallowed down a cocktail of steroids and bio-organic experimental drugs, knowing he’d need a jump start on his injuries if he planned to see the raid on Black Mask later in the week.

Showering quickly, he heard Dick call his name from the bedroom, ignoring it and shutting off the shower, wrapping a towel over his hips and walking into his lengthy closet. By the time Dick appeared in the doorway, a sharp frown on his face, Bruce was already mostly dressed. “Yes? I’ll be downstairs momentarily.”

“Christ, Bruce, four of your ribs are cracked. Are you so hard headed you’d risk puncturing a lung than wait for help?” The disapproval in Dick’s voice was obvious.

“I’m dressed now, no need to argue over spilled milk after the deed is done,” he replied in a clipped tone, hoping Dick wouldn’t continue to wheedle him about not waiting. With Dick it was a matter of pride. With Jason, a matter of remorse. With Tim, a matter of discomfort. With Damian, a matter of sadness and loss. Only with himself did he know what to do, so he did the dressing himself - as he always had with anything awkward or uncomfortable during most traumatic moments of his life - alone.

Dick made a noncommittal noise and left the closet after that, leaving Bruce in a sudden vacuum of utter silence. He frowned, tugging his dress shirt closed, fastening the tortoiseshell buttons quickly. Lately, as much as he reached for the familiar and steadied his emotions in it, he found himself lonely in the silence. Grabbing a blazer after his shirt was tucked into his pants and he slipped into some dress loafers, he hurriedly left the closet, heading down the stairs to the small dining alcove off the main kitchens by the garage.

There, at the long dining table, were all the boys and Alfred, rationing out several stacks of pancakes and bacon. Damian rolled his eyes when Jason growled as he stole a few strips off his plate, snidely pointing out he was hogging the meat. Jason in turn stole a pancake off Damian’s plate and Bruce watched as his son snorted, hiding a smirk behind a sip of orange juice from a tall glass. Dick and Tim were hovering over a tablet, dissecting some kind of code Tim had designed for the Bat Cave and some of their night optical lenses, and Alfred was smiling and serving everyone their preference of drink.

For the smallest second, Bruce considered leaving. The room’s atmosphere, while not perfect, would only be ruined with him entering it.

As if on cue, everyone suddenly paused and looked his way. He nodded faintly, sliding into a seat by the door, grateful when Alfred must have sensed his unease and moved immediately to pour him coffee. “Good morn, Master Bruce. How are you feeling today, sir?”

“Good,” he commented, glancing around the table. “Who brought me home?”

“We all did, sir,” Alfred replied, surprising Bruce, even if he didn’t show it. The boys had gone quiet, spending an inordinate amount of time stuffing their faces with Alfred’s tasty fare, and Bruce glanced at them all in turn, including Alfred. Finally, he arched a brow, hoping it would prompt someone to elaborate.

Jason, the most impatient one, ruled by this emotions and heart and quick to anger, didn’t disappoint, snorting and rolling his eyes. “You ever think of lightening the belt? Swear to fuck, I’m going to need a crane one day to move you when you’re out cold. Almost broke my damn back getting you in the car and back to the manor.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered at that, glancing Dick’s way. _Jason had taken him home?_ Dick shrugged, elaborating further. “Tim, Damian and I were busy tackling the rogues. Ivy, Harley, Penguin, Croc. They’d formed a new alliance when they were under eval in Arkham, even worked out some new toxin with Scarecrow. It’s why you can’t remember much. Fucks with your memory, from what we could see. Croc beat you good, but we were able to produce an antitoxin pretty quick and Jason moved you. If you weren’t here today, Alfred would’ve had our hides.”

Bruce said nothing, watching Tim and Damian spare him a quick glance each. He said nothing, looking between Jason and Dick. “Where are they now?”

“Cooling their heels in Ironside in solitary,” Jason replied, his tone a mockery of sympathy. “Until good old Arkham can work that magic cure all. _Again.”_

Bruce said nothing to the obvious bait in Jason’s comment, watching his ward tense as his jaw feathered and clenched, struggling not to say more. Bruce wouldn’t bring that topic up again with him, knowing how Jason felt. He often thought Bruce didn’t understand him, but that was false, he _did_ understand, he just couldn’t go there and refused to allow it if he could. Jason, in turn, had taught him over the years - some very bitterly learned - that his protégés wouldn’t always follow in his footsteps, often branching out on their own. Jason was the farthest removed from the group for that reason and while Bruce didn’t like the choice, would do his best to curb his ward’s descent to the dark depths those lengths took him to, he had to respect Jason’s choice - which was precisely why while he wouldn’t ever condone it or discuss it, he allowed Jason to do it all the same, as long as he kept his choices quiet.

“Good news is I called Kat and Babs, they’re holding things down so your ribs can recover,” Dick began again, clearing his throat, trying to steer the topic back to safer subjects. Bruce frowned, but finally nodded, knowing again why they’d done it - to give him time to heal and honor the tradition on this one day every year that Alfred had insisted on starting a few years back.

Suddenly, he realized that not once since he entered the room, had they talked about anything as a family. They’d discussed their nighttime routines like one did a business gauging its bottom line and it felt _wrong._

Sipping at his steaming cup, he glanced over at Alfred, who was rolling his eyes when Damian began to complain about the taste of cinnamon in his pancakes. He wasn’t allergic, he just had very specific tastes, and it appeared Alfred and broken a sacred trust by adding that extra ingredient when his son thought it didn’t need to be added. Against his better judgement, he suddenly smiled.

“Holy shit, is that what I think it is?”

Bruce glanced away from his son to shoot a droll glare at Jason, because _of course_ it would be his rebellious ward that noticed the smile first. The others at the table grew quiet, even Alfred and Damian, and Bruce took another sip before addressing the group. “For me it was vanilla.”

“Say what?” Tim asked, looking as confused as everyone else. Only Damian had gone deathly still, his eyes widening ever-so-slightly, at seeing his paternal figure engage in something even remotely emotional at the table.

Bruce pointed to the pancakes. “It was vanilla for me. Dad loved vanilla, so he always used too much of it.” Bruce glanced away, suddenly feeling the pressure of all those silent heated stares directed his way - their stupefied silence like vacuum in the room, obliterating all sound - forcing him to continue his story as another smile tugged at his lips. “So one year mother let me play a prank on father. I made muffins...and used half a bottle to saturate the mix. He said he tasted it in the back of his throat for a month after.” Unable to help it, he snorted a faint laugh at the remembrance of his own father forcing himself to swallow the initial bite, even as he sat there - a young boy - trying to act like he was worried his father wouldn’t like it, when he in fact knew he would hate it.

His dad had the ultimate poker face, however, and acted like he’d loved it at the time. If it was possible, Thomas Wayne had seemed even larger than life in that moment than he ever had before. It was only the following day, when he’d been sneaking around the Manor grounds and heard Thomas complain to his mother and Alfred that he’d learned his father had hated them but worried he’d break his young son’s heart with anything less than grateful praise.

Glancing back at the others, he watched them all stare at him with such flabbergasted expressions he almost winced. Was he so methodical and cut off from any kind of emotional ties that sharing something as simple as a prank he’d pulled on his father would illicit this kind of reaction? He sipped at his coffee just to give himself something to do, hide his internal turmoil as much as he was using it to hide the frown that wanted to form, but Tim saved the day by murmuring something that broke the silence.

“Dad tried grilling once...and set off every smoke alarm _inside_ the house, if you can believe it. He was grilling _outside._ My mom nearly blew a gasket and he was banned from the kitchen - and the barbecue pit - for life.”

Dick and Jason blinked, glancing at Tim, even as Bruce hid a grin behind his coffee cup. Suddenly, everyone was laughing, even Damian and Alfred.

“My old man never could cook. Hell, he sent me to school in my pajamas once, thinking they were part of the school uniform. I remember my first grade teacher writing him a note saying that Ninja Turtles pants weren’t part of the official dress code,” Jason grinned, making Dick nearly roll out of his chair with laughter. Tim nearly spit out his orange juice and Damian actually looked confused by the mention of Ninja Turtles, amusing everyone in the room when he scowled and sputtered when Dick went further with the tease and explained what they were. The _‘of course I knew that’_ speech followed, which no one believed, further annoying his son, but the smile he slowly cracked as he primly sipped at his orange juice mellowed the mood. Bruce smiled, shaking his head, glancing over at Alfred, who was mirroring his expression.

“You guys think you had it bad? My dad had to give me the ‘we dress in spandex to make a living and you’re going to learn to like it or else, kid’ speech when I was ten.” Dick chuckled, cringing faintly as he thought back. “I mean, of course I get the appeal _now,”_ he continued, ignoring the groans and boos from Tim and Jason, dodging a napkin or two thrown his way with a laugh, “but try convincing a ten-year-old that bright neon blue spanx is a good look.”

“My heart weeps for you,” muttered Jason, clutching at his chest. Tim nodded, leaning against Jason’s shoulder. “Yes,” Tim continued, nodding Dick’s way as Jason smirked, “I’m sure you cried yourself to sleep between someone’s tits as soon as you realized all the ladies like such things.”

“Don’t be jealous, it’s not my fault I have better packaging to advertise than you two,” Preened Dick, fluffing his hair. Damian looked like he wanted to vomit, eliciting the smallest chuckle out of Bruce that was missed as the boys continued to swap stories.

Suddenly, Damian cleared his throat, and the room went silent once more, even Alfred pausing in pouring more orange juice and coffee.

“You, uh -- when you...um...took me as Robin. Gave me my own suit, and told me I, uh, needed to figure out what kind of Robin I wanted to be, I…” Damian muttered, flushing red and looking furious as everyone suddenly sobered, the jovial atmosphere gone, when Damian tried to bring up something positive Bruce had done for him as a father and not a mentor, making Bruce feel like a sudden failure all over again for how damn difficult it seemed to be for his kid to say something, but Damian surprised him with what he said next. “I….put ants in your Bat pants.”

Bruce blinked, staring, remembering that day and that he _had_ in fact felt itchy that night on patrol. Everyone’s head swiveled his way as Damian flushed even brighter red but notched his chin up a little, defiance flashing in his eyes.

Unable to help it, he threw his head back and laughed until he had tears in his eyes. Suddenly, everyone joined in, and he grinned, watching everyone then launch into stories about _him_ and what they had to say. He continued to laugh throughout each of them and the tears remained glimmering in his eyes as he caught Alfred’s small smile and nod of his head.

 _Not bad, Bruce,_ he thought to himself. _You could be better, yes, but….not bad._


End file.
